“Naught you say can vex me, dear,” I answered,
as she leaned towards me in her generous sorrow; “unless
you say ’Begone, John Ridd; I love another more
than you.’”
“Then I shall never vex you, John. Never,
I mean, by saying that. Now, John, if you please,
be quiet—”
For I was carried away so much by hearing her calling
me “John” so often, and the music of her
voice, and the way she bent toward me, and the shadow
of soft weeping in the sunlight of her eyes, that some
of my great hand was creeping in a manner not to be
imagined, and far less explained, toward the lithesome,
wholesome curving underneath her mantle-fold, and
out of sight and harm, as I thought; not being her
front waist. However, I was dashed with that,
and pretended not to mean it; only to pluck some lady-fern,
whose elegance did me no good.
“Now, John,” said Lorna, being so quick
that not even a lover could cheat her, and observing
my confusion more intently than she need have done.
“Master John Ridd, it is high time for you to
go home to your mother. I love your mother very
much from what you have told me about her, and I will
not have her cheated.”
“If you truly love my mother,” said I,
very craftily “the only way to show it is by
truly loving me.”
Upon that she laughed at me in the sweetest manner,
and with such provoking ways, and such come-and-go
of glances, and beginning of quick blushes, which
she tried to laugh away, that I knew, as well as if
she herself had told me, by some knowledge (void of
reasoning, and the surer for it), I knew quite well,
while all my heart was burning hot within me, and
mine eyes were shy of hers, and her eyes were shy of
mine; for certain and for ever this I knew—as
in a glory—that Lorna Doone had now begun
and would go on to love me.
REAPING LEADS TO REVELLING
[Illustration: 236.jpg The Signal]
Although I was under interdict for two months from
my darling—“one for your sake, one
for mine,” she had whispered, with her head withdrawn,
yet not so very far from me—lighter heart
was not on Exmoor than I bore for half the time, and
even for three quarters. For she was safe; I knew
that daily by a mode of signals well-contrived between
us now, on the strength of our experience. “I
have nothing now to fear, John,” she had said
to me, as we parted; “it is true that I am spied
and watched, but Gwenny is too keen for them.
While I have my grandfather to prevent all violence;
and little Gwenny to keep watch on those who try to
watch me; and you, above all others, John, ready at
a moment, if the worst comes to the worst—this
neglected Lorna Doone was never in such case before.
Therefore do not squeeze my hand, John; I am safe without
it, and you do not know your strength.”
Ah, I knew my strength right well. Hill and valley
scarcely seemed to be step and landing for me; fiercest
cattle I would play with, making them go backward,
and afraid of hurting them, like John Fry with his
terrier; even rooted trees seemed to me but as sticks
I could smite down, except for my love of everything.
The love of all things was upon me, and a softness
to them all, and a sense of having something even such
as they had.
